He nodded. The three masked men lifted the pokers from the fire and began their grisly work. Screams shook the camp.
Adam did not stay to watch. He had a reading lesson to attend.
CHAPTER 30
Armin sat in the foyer of the City Library, reading. Discovering the name of the sponsor had opened a whole new world of possibilities before him, a completely new lead in his investigation. Now, slowly, the loose ends were finally coming together.
Davar. A simple name of a simple man. He had paid handsome sums to dozens of clerks all around the city, discreetly inquiring about this person. The truth had trickled like honey, drop by lazy drop.
Twenty years ago, Davar had been a minor noble in Caytor, not far from Eybalen. Then, one day he had sold all of his property and started the Movement. With the money he had, he bought friends and the first followers and built shrines. The founder patriarch of the Feoran religion.
Armin’s mind refused to accept the facts at face value. Something was terribly odd. Why would a religious zealot of a sect that professed against the rich and noble give money to his very opponents?
The reason eluded him for now. Whatever Davar intended, he kept it well hidden. As the years progressed, the Movement had grown, becoming the menace that held Caytorean society in thrall. Most of the time, Davar had been in Eybalen, manipulating, sending his underlings across the realm to lure and convert people. And then, one day, less than a year ago, he had vanished, just as suddenly as he had come.
Rumors held that he was in western Caytor, rousing people to his cause. About the same time, the eight murder victims had begun their strange businesses, ferrying people and goods to an unknown location, with Davar’s gold in their pockets.
Ronald Wan’der Norssin had disappeared, too, leaving behind a lot of outraged and angry bank managers, but he had discovered Shipwright Boune had not been the only person to collaborate with the patriarch. Most of the deceased had received payments from him.
Armin wished he had some access to the Feorans. He burned to know where they pooled their resources, where their money came from. They did tax the followers symbolically and gladly welcomed donations. They also plundered other temples and orchestrated small crimes. But most of their shady finances went into the establishment of new shrines and temples, into buying weapons. There was no way the Movement could support the huge endeavors the eight dead men had done.
This made Armin believe there was yet another actor in the story, one who pulled the strings of its puppets.
This time, he had no luck. Davar was a dead end.
Another investigator might have given up, but not Armin. Lacking a lead, he searched for one. There was always something, some giveaway. People were creatures of history; they lived in the past and shaped their future with memories. Things always had a reason, always a precedent.
So now he was in the library, poring over books.
The ascension of the Movement intrigued him. If it had happened once, it must have had happened before. He had begun delving into the history of Caytor. And when it had proved boring and uneventful, he’d started reading about religion.
Finding good sources on the houses of the gods had been a tricky one. The patriarchs did not seem too keen to share their annals with the public. A part of their power came from the mystery of the past, the uncertainty of old testaments and faded writings.
Still, even the most dated books drew a very simple picture of the world. The gods and goddesses had always been there, as long as humanity had existed. The names of the deities and characteristics were consistent as far back as the books went.
None ever mentioned Feor.
Armin found it even more intriguing that both the Feorans and the old religions tried to keep Feor from the books as much as possible. There must have been a reason, more than just plain disdain. If they did not want you to read something, it meant there was something that they did not want you to know about.
It seemed like a dead end. But then, he started thinking about the names. Most names had no meaning in the modern Continental, people’s as well as those of their creators. And suddenly, a new god had risen, and it had a name, an old name.
Names got changed down the pathway of time. Only very sophisticated and powerful societies managed to keep their identities from being eroded by the winds of time. Sirtai had their family lines worming into ages long forgotten. It was a testimony to their power and integrity.
The continentals were shallow nations, contemporary, fleeting, cultures that would vanish with the years, assimilated into newer, better, stronger societies. They even had no family names. And when an old name emerged amidst their lot, there was a reason for it.
The City Library had a whole section on languages. Armin had spent the last week hunting down dictionaries, trying to decipher names. Every hour took him further into history. Books became vellums and parchments and strips of leather, even pieces of rotting wood.
He sat by a large desk of polished oak, heaps of books surrounding him. He found vague references and similarities, even managed to decipher the names of some of the goddesses, like Lilith and Selena. Feor was a mystery.
The sun was setting. They were going to close the library soon. It would be another day without success.
Maybe it was sheer luck, or his superior intellect, but he found himself holding a derelict Keutan dictionary, tracing entries with a finger. He dared not touch the brittle pages. He barely dared breathe. The letters were the same, most of them, but the words had no meaning in Continental. Even the translation was alien to him. He had to use several books to finally understand what the words meant.
Then, he found it. Feor.
He leaned back, smiling. Another piece of the mystery unraveled.
Gently, he placed the dictionary on the table and rose, stretching his weary limbs. He began pacing around the foyer, thinking. Keutan was a very old language. The last time it had been spoken was thousands of years ago. People who had used it, the forefathers of modern Caytoreans, were long, long gone, another speck of dust in the passage of time.
Armin went to see one of the librarians. “Excuse me,” he said.
“We are closing very soon, sir,” the man stated in a cold, emotionless voice.
“Indeed. I need books on Caytorean history, the oldest you have.”
Grudgingly, the librarian abandoned his post and led Armin to a warren of shelves and ancient manuscripts. Maybe it was Armin’s foreign look that intrigued him.
Hidden in a corner of cobwebs and bird droppings, there were some of the most derelict books on the history of the Caytor nation. Armin took his time, prying the books from the sediment, turning pages with his heartbeat skipping as they crackled and crumbled.
Finally, he managed to find several intact volumes. There was not much time. He skipped over pages, struggling with the archaic dialects. He could have easily found most of what was written in them in new, preserved books, but he had no interest for the obvious.
He just wanted to know how far the annals went. Dates. He searched for dates, for monumental and epic events that marked changes in history and the passing of eons. There were mentions of wars, great and small, but nothing that seemed extraordinary.
Caytor changed its name and shape on the sketched maps as history faded into ancient oblivion. Armin found the texts fascinating. He knew he would be back to read in earnest. But for now, he just needed to know what the historians had to tell him.
A bell tolled. They were closing the library. Librarians rose from their desks and began ushering people out. A cough startled him. The same man who had helped him earlier stood nearby, impatient, stern. Armin placed the books on the heap, thanked the man, and went outside.
All of the books had been written in Caytorean, albeit an ancient form that made his eyes water. But they were all dated much after Keutan had died as a language. He was not going to find what he needed in the City Library.
He doubted he would find what he needed
in Eybalen. History was a human thing, something that existed because of people. Without people to relate to events, history was just a collection of fancy tales.
As a nation, the Caytoreans could not care less about those who came before them. It was not their story to tell. Armin vaguely knew that the ancient nations of the continent had been pagan, worshippers of demons and spirits and idols. They could not merit mentioning in the world shaped by the gods and goddesses. So, the Caytoreans ignored them and allowed their stories to be forgotten. It was not different from what Sirtai had done to the natives of the islands, or from what had happened to the nomadic peoples in the Red Desert.
However, as long as somewhere a book existed to tell the tale, those long dead and vanished could not be completely forgotten. They existed in those books.
Sirtai vaults were deep with knowledge about the continental peoples. And while the Eracians and Caytoreans hid dark and horrible truths about their past though forgetfulness, Sirtai scribes had written their stories down without sentiment. The real truth about Caytorean history was kept in Tuba Tuba.
Armin had to return home.
Hopefully, he would learn about Feorans, about the Movement, the sudden appearance of this new god. He would learn why an atheist noble had turned into the most fervent protagonist of a savage, young religion.
He hopped into his carriage. Inessa sat reading a book by the light of a small lamp. He kissed her. They started their way back to the rented mansion. Some time later, the carriage lurched and stopped.
Armin peered outside. “Why have we stopped?” he asked Gustav, his bodyguard. The man was not seated behind the team of horses. He stood by the carriage, a short sword in his hand.
“Everything is fine. Stay inside, investigator.”
Shouting. Clangs of metal. Armin felt his blood chill. Inessa drew her poniards and dashed outside without a word. Armin ran after her.
Gustav was dancing, his sword flashing, fighting two men further up the street. Dark figures were running toward the coach.
“Inside, Investigator!” another voice shouted. Two more secret agents the council had appointed him came out of their hiding, brandishing swords and knives. One of them pushed him back toward the carriage.
Armin watched the horrible battle evolve. Inessa threw one of her knives. A man went down, clutching his face. Another brute came at her. She glided past him, burying the second poniard in his neck.
A crossbow bolt slammed into the carriage near him, chipping paint. He winced and went down into a protective huddle, knowing full well that his symbolic act couldn’t stop the thick quarrels.
People shrieked as they died, mostly the assailants. He saw one of Gustav’s comrades stumble, pierced by one of those deadly bolts. Then, Inessa fell down, and his world shattered.
He ran toward her, oblivious of the swords flashing about him. He did not care. He did not care. He collapsed at her side, knowing with cold, heart-piercing certainty that she was dead. Her eyes were open and glazed over. The shaft of the bolt jutted from her chest; it had gone straight through her heart.
Footsteps. Shouts. The assailants were running away. Further down the street, a squad of city guards appeared, racing up toward the ambush. Gustav leaned against a wall, nursing a gash in his arm. Another council-appointed bodyguard dragged the body of his dead friend toward them. Bodies littered the cobblestones. Blood, black and slick, shimmered in the yellow lamplight. Madness.
“Investigator, we must take you to safety,” Gustav spoke, his voice laced with pain.
Armin held his tears back. Now was not the time to mourn. He touched his wife’s face, parting with her one last time. Gently, he closed her eyes.
“Investigator, please,” another face mouthed at him.
“I can walk,” Armin snapped, shrugging off the arm that helped him up to his feet. Inessa was dead.
Gustav was back on the carriage, along with a pair of city guards. The other bodyguard was waving at him frantically, urging him to rush. Armin had no reason to rush. They had killed his wife.
What would he tell Doris and Galina? That she had been his bodyguard for so many years, without so much as a scratch, and that she had died in a foreign city to a foreign arrow? It was supposed to be just another investigation, a battle fought with intellect.
The dazed Sirtai climbed into the carriage. As it sped away, he allowed his tears to run free in the dim light of Inessa’s small lamp.
CHAPTER 31
Ayrton had expected an almost ecstatic thrill to envelop him once he stepped into Jaruka, the holiest of the holy cities, the seat of all the houses of the gods, the place where the destiny of mankind had been shaped.
Instead, he felt empty, almost depressed.
The city was recuperating from the Autumn Festival. It was officially autumn now. Days were getting shorter and colder. Rain came almost every day, drizzles, sleet, tiny storms, almost a portent of things to come.
Walking down the busy, chaotic streets, Ayrton could not shrug off the uneasy feeling of being in another Talmath, another place doomed to spiral into depths of despair. Refugees were everywhere, keeping the locals from being completely immersed in their blissful ignorance.
Despite the war and madness, pilgrims came, people from Eracia and Caytor and even Parus, to pray or beg for favors. Outside the city, the largest single force of Outsiders he had yet seen was assembled, a meager ten thousand supposed to stall the Caytorean war engine while he labored toward the City of Gods. If it weren’t so sad, he would have burst out laughing.
There was nothing more pathetic than seeing doomed people delude themselves. The wise and the cowardly had already fled, including most of his comrades, soldiers of the Cause. Stories said that when the infidels charged the holiest of cities, many of the Outsiders would be there to raze and burn and rape. Well, when a man could so easily shed his former life without ever looking back, he could do it again, even more readily.
Ayrton still could not grasp what his place in this ugly scheme of things was. Why him? He had been an evil man. Was this a part of his eternal punishment?
He had been separated from the rest of the convoy last night. His only companions were patriarchs and matriarchs and dozens of brothers and sisters, people he had never seen before in his life. Yet, they seemed to share some secret he was not part of, some great joke at his expense. He felt like a goat led to the slaughter.
Last night, just before he’d gone to sleep, Matriarch Alda had come to him, red-eyed. She had told him her goddess had not spoken to her to since that day in the little hamlet. Her power was weakening. There was very little time.
Now, they were leading him before the heads of the houses, the arch-patriarchs and arch-matriarchs, the people who played with the lives of nations. He felt merely annoyed.
The Grand Monastery in Jaruka dwarfed the one huge monument he had known. It was colossal, awe-inspiring, meant to humble a man before he dared enter. Combat priests stood in thick, ceremonial rows, making sure no simple man passed through. Inside, Ayrton craned his neck to see the heads of the titanic statues of the major gods and goddesses, but they were lost in the gloom of the vault. There was no sound, except the soft clicks of soles on flagstones and the beating of wings of birds nesting in the balconies above.
A group of people stood at the footsteps of giants and waited for the procession.
Ayrton considered dropping to his knees.
Instead, they bowed to him. “Welcome,” one of them said.
“Please follow us,” another added.
They took him down a long, dimly lit corridor, then up a grand stairwell, down the length of another corridor, up again, always up. Time stretched. Finally, the gloom of the infinite passages was replaced by a bright, blinding glare. Squinting, he followed the priests outside, onto a giant balcony, high above Jaruka.
The balcony stood well over a hundred paces above the ground. People looked like ants, milling, pushing, oblivious to their puniness.
No one said anything. They waited for him to speak.
“What is the meaning of all this?” he ventured after a long time mulling over what he should say. Even so, his question sounded petty, irritating him.
One of the priests reached with an arm, slowly sweeping across the horizon. “The world our gods and goddess shaped is threatened by a force of unbelievers. The people you see below, they are all doomed. In just a few months, Jaruka will no longer exist. But there is still hope.”
“You may cut down a tree, but if the roots exist, it will live,” another intoned.
As a barren stump, a mockery, Ayrton thought, but said nothing.
“As long as the gods and goddesses are with us, there is hope. The enemy may kill our people and burn our homes, but there will always be faith. People will find a new, more peaceful land to erect temples in the glory of our creators.
“But if our gods…are destroyed, the faith will wane with time, become a ghost. There will be no belief left, no hope. This world will wither and become something dark and sinister.”
Ayrton sighed. It already had.
“You are the only one who can save the world now.”
“I don’t understand,” he whispered.
“He must see! He must believe!” one of their lot persisted.
“Follow us, son,” someone said.
They led him away, this time, into a chamber, round, with walls covered in rusty sconces and foul-smelling torches burning. On the floor, seated on a mat of wool, was a girl, about ten years old, making funny noises to herself. She yammered, ululated softly, spoke so rapidly her tongue lashed out of her mouth.
Ayrton felt repulsed by the sight. “Who is she?”
A friendly hand touched his shoulder. “In the ages past, the gods and goddesses lived among men. And sometimes, they took a liking to some of the humans. Sometimes, the gods and goddesses made love to human flesh. From the union of this love came the…Special Children.”
The narrator paused, removed the hand, and began a slow stroll across the chamber. “But then, there was a great war. Some gods and goddesses were unmade as their followers were all killed and their temples all ruined. Afraid of what the future might bring, some of the deities gave away their beings to the Special Children so they could become leaders of men and help win the war.”
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 22
